


Cupid Is Not His Preferred Name

by out_there



Category: Glee
Genre: AU, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-31
Updated: 2012-10-31
Packaged: 2017-11-17 10:24:40
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,670
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/550557
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/out_there/pseuds/out_there
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Blaine joined the acolytes of Aphrodite, there was respect for the art of matchmaking.  Admittedly, that was a long time ago.  These days, helping people recognise true love is a lot harder.  (AU, set early s2.  No spoilers.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cupid Is Not His Preferred Name

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to [](http://lissysadmin.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**lissysadmin**](http://lissysadmin.dreamwidth.org/), [](http://ainsley.dreamwidth.org/profile)[**ainsley**](http://ainsley.dreamwidth.org/) and [](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://kmousie.livejournal.com/)**kmousie** for betaing. Also, thanks to those precious few who read along as I worked on this and kept encouraging.

When Blaine joined the acolytes of Aphrodite, there were serious speeches about devoting your life to the goddess and spending immortality in her service. At the time, he thought it was hyperbole. Immortality probably meant a name transcribed in the temple’s records or surviving in the stories of her followers. He hadn’t thought it actually meant living forever.

But it’s been over two millennia since he was washed clean in the temple’s fountains, and he’s still helping couples find true love. Some things have changed over the centuries. They still get sent to couples in need and love potions are used to gain the goddess’s favour, but these days new missions come by text message. At least the scrolls describing the lovelorn are still written in the Ancient Greek he first learned to read, even if they tend to come as pdf attachments.

Sometimes, Blaine misses the days when the lonely and broken-hearted would seek an audience at the temple. Back then, they would consult the oracles to identify their missing half, contact the families and everyone would sit down formally to discuss the dowry. He misses the days when Aphrodite’s potion was sacred and respected by all, when it would be poured into the finest silverware and sipped with reverence as the couple stared into each other’s eyes.

These days, it’s all about spiking someone’s drink or using an air-propelled dart laced with potion. It works but it lacks finesse.

***

Blaine’s been doing this long enough to do it in his sleep. Find each of the lovelorn, manufacture some way for them to be alone and then hit each of them with a dose. Within three days, they’ll be inseparable and true love will rule all reason.

He finds the two easily enough. The girl is small of stature but she has a big smile and even bigger ambition. Her heart shines brightly, full of passion and longing. She’s halfway to being in love already.

It takes Blaine a little longer to spot the boy in his athletic uniform, one head standing above the crowd. Blaine sighs to himself because there are some drawbacks to living for centuries. When he was mortal, he was considered tall in his village. Now, fifteen-year-olds tower above him.

Blaine looks closer at the boy, reading the aura of his heart. There’s an inverse height to ambition ratio here, and his dreams are simple and uncomplicated. There are no visions of bright lights or fame, but his dreams are heartfelt and earnest. He dreams of love, of family and of doing his best for them every day.

Blaine keeps a safe distance and follows the boy to the school auditorium. It’s almost too easy. The stage is dimly lit, a love song plays in the background and the boy and girl are alone, singing to each other with hearts yearning for more. With a setting like this, intervention is hardly needed. However, it’s not Blaine’s place to debate the point of a mission.

It’s Blaine’s job to prepare the darts, and send them flying with two quick huffs of breath. The darts glide smooth and true to their intended targets, and Blaine congratulates himself on a job well done.

***

Some days, Blaine’s thankful he chose Aphrodite. As a boy, he’d prayed at the family shrine and made the appropriate sacrifices, but he’d never loved one god more than another. In the end, the choice had come down to the patron gods and goddesses of his village, the stories he knew and the causes he could recognise.

He could have served Athena or Ares and spent his long life on battlefields, inspiring the strategic plans of conflict or the bloodlust of violence. Blaine could have served Hera, bringing help and comfort to wives, bringing health to children and calming the family home. He likes kids and he considered it, but to be honest it was such a strongly female faction that he felt uncomfortable.

At Aphrodite’s temple, he was welcomed. He felt most at home in a sect that worshiped beauty, desire and love. He wasn’t overly devout but it was the best available option.

He didn’t think he’d be doing it for hundreds of years, but at least he’s talented at reading hearts. He likes seeing the glow of new love light up someone’s face. And there’s the perk of never aging. He’ll never grow older than his twenty years and he’ll always retain the youthful dark-haired beauty that had so pleased the temple elders.

It also means he spends a lot of time blending into high schools and colleges, but he doesn’t mind that on a day when the breeze is warm on his skin and he can enjoy the satisfaction of young hearts in love. The sunlight filters through the leaves above him, falling on him in dappled patches, warm and chilly by turns. The battery on his cell is fully charged. As soon as love’s true kiss proves this a success, he’ll have a text message giving him a new location and another pair. This will be another town he passed through, another paired he joined without remembering their names.

***

Assignment messages are usually prompt. After the second day when Blaine still hasn’t received a new mission, he returns to the high school to make sure nothing’s gone awry. He stands by the lockers, scrolling through the original assignment as he waits. He pays more attention to their names this time.

Finn, the boy, is the first to walk down the row of lockers. He shifts his bag on his shoulder and then spots the girl, Rachel, at the other end of the hallway. Blaine watches his heart fill with joy and hope.

Then a blonde girl comes around the corner and hooks her arm into his.

“Who is that?” Blaine asks, even though he already knows from the guilt and shame shadowing Finn’s heart. Not checking for prior romantic entanglements is a beginners’ mistake. He knows better than this. He should have broken them apart first, and then pointed Finn and Rachel at each other.

It’s fixable, Blaine knows. True love can always find a way, but in this case, it’s going to be messy.

The boy beside him says, “Quinn Fabray, head cheerleader,” in a dry, sarcastic tone. “She’s dating the quarterback, in case it wasn’t obvious. And in a civilised society, most people start with hello. Or at least say excuse me.”

Blaine drags his gaze away from the blonde. The boy beside him is wearing something Blaine can’t quite describe. There’s a knitted cap on his head, in bright blue and dark brown. There’s a loose leather strip around his neck that might be a very skinny tie or a very wide necklace. He’s wearing a long sweater that falls to his knees. It’s sky blue with a wide neckline that hangs from his shoulders; it crosses over his waist, held there by three oversized buttons. The sleeves are loose and generous, stopping inches short of his pale wrists. There are jeans beneath it and boots, buttons and zips that never existed when Blaine was young, but for a moment Blaine sees it as a toga. He imagines this smooth-skinned youth in the finest blue cloth, sturdy sandals on his feet, thick silver bands on his arms.

“Or you could introduce yourself by name,” the boy says slowly, one eyebrow arching high. “For example, hi, I’m Kurt. Or maybe— duck!”

That makes no sense to Blaine. When did poultry become an acceptable greeting?

And then he’s hit by a wave of ice.

***

Kurt takes pity on him and leads Blaine to the bathroom to help him clean up. He runs warm water in the sink and pulls clothes out of his bag.

“What was that?” Blaine asks, because he’s cold and sticky and there’s a smell far removed from nature. It’s all plastic and chemical sweet, fake and unnerving.

“Slushies,” Kurt says, using a wet cloth to wipe the worst of it away. Kurt’s eyes are the colour of the sea near Blaine’s village: blue, green and grey; ever-changing and unknowable. Blaine remembers standing by the shoreline as a child, watching the sunlight shimmer over the water, watching the horizon for the tall masts of ships sailing to distant wars.

“Slushies,” Blaine repeats, thinking of the huge cups and strange coloured drinks. He can understand their existence as weapons; it makes far more sense than wanting to consume it.

“If you wear Brooks Brothers and Marc by Marc Jacobs to this school, you’re going to be a target,” Kurt says and Blaine looks deeper. He’s not supposed to use his powers on anyone but the couple he’s assigned, and looking at anyone else is always harder. It’s like looking through a shallow pool at the bright pebbles below, but he looks at Kurt and sees bitter disappointment and closely held anger. There’s also fear and sadness there, but he’s a warrior at heart. “Those Neanderthals might have been aiming at me, if it makes you feel better.”

***

It’s been at least a decade since Blaine’s had to attend a day at school. Usually, he gets his assignment and it’s sorted within two days. He’ll have a few days to himself before the next message arrives and he has to make his way to another little town or big city, and find another pair of star-crossed lovers to unite.

He doesn’t think he’ll be stuck here too long, but he organises a cover story just in case. After a quick text to explain the situation to his coordinators, the school records suddenly include a Blaine Anderson. Blaine likes that surname, the rolling sound of it. He might keep it after this. He usually changes names once a century or so, just enough to sound modern. He feels less out of place in this century as a Blaine than as a Blathyllos.

Of course, Blaine doesn’t attend any of the classes. That would be pointless. It’s always information he’ll never use and he hates having to follow textbooks written in modern languages. He’s lived through times of plenty and peace, he’s walked through war-torn destitution. He has no interest in listening to people a fraction of his age try to simplify and glorify things he saw with his own eyes. He’s never seen the glory in battle strategies that leave corpses piled high; he’s never seen a revolution that wasn’t paid for with blood and fear. He can’t sit in a room of protected, cherished children and stomach their fascination with gory details in history books.

He needs to find a distraction for Quinn, not try to read information in foreign tongues.

***

Blaine commandeers a conveniently empty locker a few rows from Quinn’s. It gives him a place to stand, an acceptable way to watch her interactions with the other students. It’s also across the corridor from the boy he met earlier, Kurt. It means that while Blaine’s waiting for Quinn to show up between classes, he has something interesting to look at.

Kurt dresses like he belongs in a magazine or on a runway. There are strict sharp lines one day and loose, flowing cardigans the next. Skin-tight jeans, and then green and red plaid pants. Ankle-high white boots and then fantastically detailed grey loafers. It’s never the same combination of clothes, but it’s interesting. He doesn’t wear the sweater that Blaine first saw him in, the one that hung like a toga from his shoulders.

There’s no reason for Blaine to be disappointed by that.

***

It’s been nearly four weeks, and Blaine is no closer to having this situation sorted out. Rachel watches Finn as if he were the sun and the moon all wrapped into one shining vessel. Finn watches Rachel and feels guilty, or watches Quinn and feels conflicted and obligated. As closely as Blaine’s watching Quinn, she lets so little of her heart out that Blaine can’t tell if there’s any boy she likes more than Finn. As a matter of fact, Blaine can’t even tell if she particularly likes Finn. Everything is closed and carefully locked deep inside her. Blaine really wishes it wasn’t so but it’s starting to look like he might be here for months.

He likes his job and he likes his life. He’s spent it doing honourable things, worthy goals of bringing the joy of love to people’s lives. It’s a good cause and he usually enjoys it well enough, but the temple elders aren’t pleased with him at the moment. They’ve told him to stay for the remainder of the academic year, and that’s half punishment and half thoughtfulness. He now has plenty of time to get this right but they’ve also asked if this will be as bad as 1923. That terrible year was the last time Blaine got things wrong and it took nearly five months to correct. In Blaine’s defence, there were identical twins involved and anyone could have made that mistake, and how was he expected to know that the wrong twin would decide to travel to the New World?

Blaine’s not looking forward to spending another few months here but he’s sure it could be worse. At least there isn’t an uncomfortable uniform.

***

“Do you like Quinn?” Kurt asks, his eyes narrowed and careful. The hallway is a throng of teenage bodies, all rushing to get places. Somehow, Kurt stands apart, unruffled by the chaos around him.

“I guess,” Blaine says. He doesn’t actively dislike her, and that’s nearly the same thing. “She seems… nice.”

“She’s not. The Unholy Trinity is not an ironic nickname,” Kurt says, pointed as the spiked metal explosion of a brooch he’s pinned to his chest. No matter how cutting his comments, Blaine’s seen the shape of his heart: strong but gentle, effusive and warm. His tone may be sharp as the crease at his collar, but there’s far more to Kurt than he shows. “But if you want, I could put in a good word for you. We’re in glee club together so I could find a way to introduce you.”

“I don’t need to meet her.” Meeting targets never makes the job easier. Blaine’s done this long enough to know the sidelines and the shadows are the best vantage point for observing the lovelorn. Nowadays, people get concerned when you stand in front of them staring into their heart.

“Let me know if you change your mind. You keep staring at her, so it won’t be a secret for long.”

That’s when Blaine reconsiders the conversation. When Kurt said ‘like’ he probably meant more than Blaine assumed.

He prefers his job when he doesn’t have to talk to people too much. The Goddess may have given them the gift of every tongue but even when he knows the language, true fluency is difficult. In detailed conversations, he has to remember that kids use different words. Every generation, every few years, the words shift and the finer meaning changes. It makes it harder to go unnoticed in a crowd. “I’m not, um, interested in Quinn,” he tries, hoping the phrase is still currently used.

“You’re not?” Kurt seems confused. Blaine wonders if ‘interested’ was the wrong word to use. “Is there anyone you do like?”

“I’m not looking for anything serious right now,” Blaine manages, parroting something he’d seen on television a few nights ago. It’s both vague and appropriately modern, so he thinks it’ll do. He can’t explain the truth: that he’s spent hundreds of years in Aphrodite’s service and the fine print excludes falling in love.

It’s ironic that the goddess of love and desire expects love to be sacrificed in her honour. Acolytes are expected to encourage love in others, not to indulge in it themselves. To be in love with the goddess is divine; to fall in love with another is synonymous with leaving her service. Claiming to love another was always the fastest way to leave the temple.

“You’re not interested but you watch her every day? The way you stare at her is the same way I stare at new season McQueen.”

Blaine does stare, but not because he’s attracted to her. He stares because he’s trying to get a good read on her, and it’s harder than it sounds. She keeps her heart locked up tight, constrained and hidden. The walls around it are firm and opaque, trapping everything beneath. Blaine hoped so hard that if he kept watching her he’d see a spark of interest, a hint of compatibility with one of the hundred teenagers around her. He wouldn’t need much. Just a small spark and a gentle prod from a watered-down potion, and he could make this work. He’d only use the lightest of doses: not enough to make her fall head over heels, just enough to keep her infatuated until the end of the year. He just needs enough time for Rachel and Finn to get together but there isn’t anyone Quinn especially likes. Quinn doesn’t let herself.

“It’s not like that,” Blaine says.

Kurt raises one finely shaped eyebrow and perches a hand on his hip. “Really? Because you could tell me. I’d judge you for it, but I’d be willing to help.”

“I’m kind of a good matchmaker,” Blaine says, even though he knows he shouldn’t. It’s uncomfortably close to the truth.

“A matchmaker?”

“I’m good at it.”

“You think the head cheerleader needs your help getting a date? I hate to break it to you, but she doesn’t need the cupid of McKinley High. The cheerleaders get whatever they want here. It’s how it works.”

“Just because they’re admired doesn’t mean they can find true love on their own,” Blaine says earnestly. “True love isn’t about dating someone you’re expected to date. It’s about looking below the surface, searching for that other part of your soul. It’s finding someone who encourages you and lifts you up, who inspires you to be the best person you can be, to live each day with love and passion. It’s important.”

Kurt glances down, brushing a fingertip over the pointed edges of his brooch. “You want to set Quinn up with someone?” he asks, but there’s something not quite right in his tone. That judgemental confidence is missing, and his voice sounds so warm and uncertain without it.

“She doesn’t seem right with Finn.” Blaine shrugs. “There must be someone better suited to her. In a school this size, surely there must be someone. I just haven’t found him yet.”

“You’re a bit of a freak,” Kurt says, sounding normal again, “and coming from me, that’s saying something.”

***

The Cheerios have taken the day off school. School rumours say they’re attending a solarium to achieve a uniform colour, but Blaine’s sure that can’t be right. If he’d known Quinn wasn’t going to be on school grounds today, Blaine wouldn’t have shown up. It’s not like he attends the classes; he spends most class time sitting in the library, checking his phone or browsing through the magazines in his bag.

“Are you reading Teen Vogue?”

When Blaine looks up, Kurt’s standing there, leaning over Blaine’s shoulder to stare at the open pages. He looks from the glossy, colour-saturated pictures to Blaine, looking him up and down as if he’s just recognised that Blaine’s outfit is an exact copy of a modern preppy spread two months ago.

“Reading Vogue is hardly the straightest of pastimes,” Kurt says.

Blaine’s not sure if it’s supposed to be a joke so he smiles and shrugs. He likes fashion magazines. They’re one of the best aspects of modern civilisation. He remembers back in the 1800s, reading through current newspapers from Paris, London and New York, trying to get his best grasp on the current fashion and how hard it was to accurately choose the appropriate clothing for the current age. These days, it’s as easy as opening up a picture and ordering the clothes to match.

“Judging by the clothes, I knew you were a step above the average Wal-Mart shoppers around here.” The way Kurt says ‘Wal-Mart’ makes it sound like a plight against humanity, a plague sent from the heavens. Blaine likes that touch of sarcasm, that surety of youth. He likes it as much as Kurt’s shirt, tiny patterns of blue, violet and white that look like a meadow of wildflowers seen from a distance. It’s partly hidden by a fawn scarf looping across his chest, matching the colour of the linen pants that fall in perfect creases to Kurt’s white and black ankle boots. “Although maybe this is what you do instead of attending classes.”

“What?” Blaine asks guiltily. He doesn’t have to attend classes, but it’s better if his truancy goes unnoticed. “What do you mean?”

“I see you in the hallways, I know you’re at school but I never see you in any of my classes.”

“Different timetable,” Blaine says easily. As far as excuses go, it’s an easy one. “The year above.”

“That excuse would work if I didn’t have advanced French and English. You’re not in any of the senior classes either.”

Blaine’s used to thinking on his feet. “No, I meant you’re in the class above me.”

“You’re a sophomore?” Kurt looks him up and down, considering and haughty. It’s a look that wouldn’t be out of place on a Roman patrician.

“Yep, I’m a sophomore.” Blaine doesn’t point out that he’s about fifteen times that age. This is one of those days when he’s feeling it down to his bones, world-weary and unenthused, but he still manages a smile and a nod. “Is there something wrong with that?”

“You seemed older,” Kurt says, shrugging. “But most people think I’m twelve, so I know looks can be deceiving.”

Blaine’s waiting for Kurt to leave because their conversations are always short. He’s watched Kurt, and while Kurt has a handful of friends that he talks to, most of the school is ignored by him. Other than the towering brutes who push Kurt around in the hallways. Kurt always has a few choice insults for them.

But Kurt stays. “Are you still thinking about setting up Quinn?”

“I don’t think she’s well suited to Finn,” Blaine says in response.

“And that’s all it is? You’re looking out for Quinn’s best interest?”

“I think Finn could find someone better suited to him as well,” Blaine hazards, although he’s probably saying more than he should. “I think it’s a tragedy to have two people stop themselves from finding love because of prior obligations. To go through the motions without love is so sad.”

“I am a fantastic organiser. I know this school very, very well. I have a good understanding of the Cheerio mindset and the kind of person it takes to be head cheerleader. I could be very useful,” Kurt says seriously.

“Oh, that would be—”

“But,” Kurt interrupts sharply, “I need to know there are no ulterior motives here.”

Blaine smiles and hopes it looks trustworthy. He does have an ulterior motive: he wants Finn to kiss Rachel; he wants to get out of this school; he really doesn’t want to take a calculus test and the longer he’s here, the more likely that becomes. “I think Finn would be better suited to someone else and I don’t think he’ll pursue that as long as he feels obligated to stay with Quinn. And the only way I think Quinn will break up with him is if she finds someone else.”

“Who?”

“I really don’t know. If I could work out who Quinn would—”

“No, not who Quinn would be suited to,” Kurt says sharply. “Finn. He may be my stepbrother now but I understand the appeal. He’s sweet, he’s good-looking, he’s tall and has great shoulders. He’s also completely straight. Breaking them up won’t change that.”

Blaine is a little bit surprised and a little bit shocked. He takes a moment to really look hard at Kurt, to try to read the history that must be there. His heart surges around the concept of Finn, fond and kind, protective but not possessive. Maybe in the past, there are shadows of embarrassment, something sharp and painful like broken dreams and lost hope, but they’re not current feelings. Right now, Kurt’s trying to protect everyone: Finn and Blaine, and Quinn too.

It’s touching that Kurt cares so generously, even if he’d never say it outright. “It’s not like that.”

“It’s not?” Kurt asks imperiously.

“I have no designs on Finn Hudson for myself. Could you imagine trying to stretch up that high to kiss someone? That’s ridiculous.”

Kurt laughs at that, but at least he seems convinced. “In that case, I’ll assist your quixotic attempt at matchmaking.”

***

Kurt lives up to his promise of being a good organiser. When they next meet in the library – this time on purpose and in one of the study rooms – Kurt brings a whiteboard full of notes on Quinn Fabray and a cardboard poster of yearbook photos. “They’re potential dates,” Kurt explains, pointing at the key of coloured stamps below each picture. “They meet the minimum requirements of popularity and a letterman jacket. I considered vetting on an academic scale but she’s dating Finn. Clearly, intelligence isn’t a priority.”

***

It should be easy but it isn’t. The popular athletes in the school are either nice, conservative boys or arrogant, immature upstarts. The first see Quinn as difficult and high maintenance, and aren’t interested in dating her. The second snigger and make tasteless jokes at the idea of taking Quinn out. Quinn Fabray is gorgeous by current social standards and physically fit. She’s smart and ambitious, and Blaine doesn’t understand why this is so difficult. The boys in this school should be lining up to be with her.

“I don’t understand,” Blaine says to Kurt, standing over the mirrors of the girls’ bathroom. The last potential candidate laughed at them and then threw a slushie, and now Blaine is both wet and confused.

“Even I can’t explain the complete lack of civility in this school.” Kurt wipes the blue ice from his forehead, and tries to revive the sweep of his hair. “But I can explain the track-record comment if that’s confusing you.”

Blaine shakes his head. He’s been on campus for enough lunchtimes to hear the whispered gossip, the scandal of the previous year and Quinn’s pregnancy. As much as he might wish that he didn’t comprehend the vulgar comments he’s heard, lust and ridicule have been around longer than this generation’s breathed air. “Do you think we’re overlooking someone?”

“Like who?” Kurt asks. “Quinn isn’t going to consider anyone who isn’t accepted and popular at school and for our school, that means jock.”

“What about the Cheerios?” Blaine asks, splashing water on his face. When the last of the dye is off, he reaches for a paper napkin and pats his skin dry. “Maybe we’ve overlooked someone there.”

“Two male cheerleaders and both have girlfriends.”

“And the girls?”

“What?” Kurt asks, soft and a little breathy.

“They’d be popular and have letterman jackets,” Blaine says, glancing up to find Kurt staring at him in the mirror. “Maybe there’s a romantic spark with one of the girls on the team.”

“Quinn Fabray?” Kurt asks the question softly, both brows raised in surprise. It only takes a breath and then his sarcasm returns. “Are you suggesting that Jesus Is My Personal Saviour, All-American Girl, Head Cheerleader Quinn Fabray is going to dump the quarterback to change teams?”

“She’d still be a Cheerio,” Blaine replies and Kurt chuckles.

The laugh dies off as Kurt realises he’s serious.

“Changing teams. Coming to the kd Lang side of the force,” Kurt says, although it doesn’t make things any clearer for Blaine. “It’s a fairly open secret that Santana and Brittany sleep with each other more often than they sleep with guys, and neither of them are breaking down the closet door in a rush to come out.”

“Oh.”

“To be gay in this school is social suicide. I’d know.”

It’s the bitter twist of Kurt’s mouth, the shadow of hurt in his eyes. It’s the careless pushing in the hallways and the slushies thrown with a laugh. It’s far from the worst thing Blaine’s seen but it makes his chest ache. It’s unfair and hurtful, but Kurt keeps his head held high and acts as if the joke is on everyone around him.

“Trust me,” Kurt says, everything soft and hurt hidden behind his glorious pride, “Quinn would rather be single than the school’s first lesbian.”

***

As frustrating as it is to watch Finn and Rachel fall in love and hold themselves back, Blaine enjoys spending time with Kurt. Blaine admires Kurt’s sharp-witted tongue and generous heart, his ability to shine amongst a crowd of dull children. Kurt has youth’s certainty, sure he knows better than everyone around them, but his eyes are kind. They show the hard-earned wisdom that living involves loss, that death can come suddenly and without reason.

Blaine should be focused on his mission. He should wake each morning and think only of Rachel and Finn, and Quinn by extension. He should be solely engrossed in making this right.

But when Blaine wakes to sunlight on his closed eyelids, when he hears snatches of birdsong and traffic, when he prepares for his upcoming day at school, he thinks of Kurt first. He thinks of what Kurt will wear and what he’ll say, if there will be a new sartorial judgement or a stunning piece of school gossip. He wonders if this will be one of those days when Kurt’s too busy to stop and talk, when he’ll smile and give Blaine a small, fluttering wave from the other side of the hallway.

He hasn’t mentioned this to any of his superiors. Blaine knows he shouldn’t be so enthralled by a mortal. He knows that when the school year is done, when he gets Finn and Rachel to finally kiss, he’ll leave for another town and another pair of lovers. There will be many couples across states and countries; there will be messages and missions and one decade will roll into the next century. It’s unlikely he’ll ever see Kurt again and even if he did, Kurt wouldn’t recognise him. Blaine would still look like a teenager, would still look the same way he has for hundreds of years; he might remind Kurt of someone he once knew or Kurt might not even take a second glance. People never believe a teenager met decades later is the same person they knew.

Blaine knows that’s how this will end but it doesn’t stop him from yearning for Kurt. He still wants to spend time around Kurt. He wants to tell Kurt about the things he’s seen and lived through, the small wonders of the human heart. He wants to tell Kurt the mundane details of his own life, back when it was his life, when he was a boy chasing goats across green hills or splashing in the cold seawater.

He won’t because it’s impossible. Kurt would never understand. Gods and magic are fairytales to the people today, a sign of insanity or a zealot. Kurt wouldn’t believe the stories Blaine could tell.

***

When a new kid transfers to the school, Blaine thinks they might have found a solution. He joins the football team and gets a letterman jacket and even better, he catches Quinn’s attention in the hallway.

When he suggest it to Kurt, Kurt asks, “Are you serious?”

“You don’t think they’d be a good match?”

“He’s gay.”

Blaine’s watched the new boy closely and given the way that he smiles at Quinn and sometimes takes a double-look at the Cheerios, he thought it was a fairly safe bet. “Are you sure?”

“Look at the dye job,” Kurt says, flicking fingers through his hair. “That is not Sam’s natural colour. Can you honestly imagine a straight boy dying his hair that blond?”

“Maybe he just wanted to look good? It does suit him,” Blaine says, and Kurt gives him a strange look.

***

By the time Kurt rescinds his opinion, begrudgingly acknowledging, “It’s ironic that making out with the gayest and easiest Cheerio proves Sam’s straight,” Blaine’s removed Sam from the list of potentials on other grounds. He’s seen the way Kurt’s brash glee club friend smiles at Sam and saves him tater tots at lunch. Blaine knows a lost cause when he sees it.

***

“So, prom?” Blaine asks after Kurt’s talked non-stop about it for the past two weeks. There’s been discussion of themes, acceptable dress code, common fashion mistakes and options in menswear. Kurt’s talked about his favourite songs and his favourite prom-themed films and what the glee club might be performing. It’s as if he’s forgotten any other topic of conversation exists.

“What about prom?” Kurt’s giddy smile speaks volumes.

“Have you asked anyone?”

“Not yet,” Kurt says, ducking his head to search through his bag for something. “I was kind of hoping someone would ask me, but… not yet.”

Blaine knew it. He knew this was a great idea. “You’ve tried so hard to help me with Finn and Rachel. I owe you a huge debt of gratitude and I thought, well, I am good with this matchmaker stuff. I’m not promising true love but…”

Kurt looks up from his bag, eyes wide and so blue-grey that Blaine can almost hear the crash of waves. “But?”

“But I’m sure I could arrange a date for prom, if you told me who you liked.” It would involve a slight misuse of Aphrodite’s potion, Blaine knows, but Kurt deserves it. Blaine wouldn’t use too much, just enough to ensure Kurt’s date for the night is suitably besotted. He can’t make it last but he can offer Kurt the prom night he’s always wanted, the things he’s dreamed about for years. Kurt deserves to be happy. “I can be pretty convincing when I need to be.”

“I don’t want you to talk someone into taking me to prom.”

“I could do it, Kurt. You’d have a great time.”

Kurt shakes his head. “I appreciate the thought but no. Anyway, what about you? Have you asked anyone?”

“I’m not going,” Blaine says, which inspires a slight panic in Kurt, judging by the way he grips Blaine’s shoulders and tries to shake him.

“It’s prom! You can’t not go.”

“I’m not a good dancer,” Blaine says, shrugging. He doesn’t know any of the modern dances and he can’t follow the fast, shifting beats of current songs. He doesn’t see the point of going to an event he won’t enjoy. “I’ll be transferring to a new school next year.”

“So this is your only chance to attend a McKinley High prom,” Kurt says urgently.

Luckily, Blaine remembers that he has an excuse. “I can’t go. I’m a sophomore. I’m not invited.”

“Oh,” Kurt sighs. The smile that breaks over his face is joyous and bright. “I forgot. You can’t ask anyone to prom.”

Blaine frowns. It’s true but he’s not sure how it relates to this conversation. “And that’s why I’m not going.”

“Come with me,” Kurt says and Blaine doesn’t get it. Not until Kurt reaches out and takes his hand. “Be my date to prom.”

Blaine should say no. He shouldn’t get involved. But he just offered to get Kurt a date for prom and Kurt’s looking forward to junior prom so much. He wants it with all his heart. Blaine can’t say no to that.

***

“I’ve done it,” Kurt exclaims, twirling in a knee-length cardigan that flares around him as he spins. “I’ve done it!”

“Done what?”

“Achieved step one in your insane matchmaking plan.”

“Step one was to set Quinn up with someone else so she’d break up with Finn,” Blaine says slowly.

“Modified step one.” Kurt holds one finger in the air, waving it in front of Blaine’s face. “I talked to Quinn and convinced her that she’d get more votes for prom Queen if she ran on a sympathy campaign of the wronged woman.”

“Will she?”

“She has a bad reputation and I convinced her that she’d be more accessible to the girls if she’d had her heart broken. And guys are more interested in her if she’s single.” Kurt grins and grabs Blaine’s arm, tugging him down the hallway. “If we hurry, we’ll catch the tail-end of an Oscar-worthy performance.”

Blaine doesn’t question it. He lets Kurt lead him to the cafeteria and into the middle of the crowd. Kurt keeps a hand on his wrist, tugging them through the press of bodies. Everyone’s circled around Quinn, Finn and Rachel. Quinn’s in tears and Rachel looks close to it, and Finn looks like somebody stole his most precious possession.

“It’s not like that,” Finn says, but Quinn’s smearing her mascara, sobbing, “How could you cheat on me? How could you break my heart like that?” and for once, Rachel’s silent.

“I like Rachel, yeah, but we haven’t done anything,” Finn says and Quinn shoots back, “Do you love her?” and there’s a terrible moment where Blaine holds his breath and hopes with every pulse of blood in his veins.

“Yes,” Finn says and Quinn goes running off in tears but Rachel’s still there. She steps forward and touches Finn’s arm and says, “I feel the same way. I tried not to but I can’t help it.”

When Finn and Rachel kiss, Kurt squeezes Blaine’s wrist so tightly the bones almost grind together. “I can’t believe we did it,” Kurt hisses in his ear.

Blaine can’t believe he’s disappointed that they did.

***

Blaine gets a congratulatory text message that night. He’s almost dreading his next mission but instead they confirm that he’ll stay there until the end of the academic year.

Perhaps he should feel ashamed that the elders haven’t forgiven him yet, but Blaine’s only glad he doesn’t have to leave.

***

Picking Kurt up for prom feels like performing in a pantomime. Blaine researches his role by watching film after film of high school kids going through the ritual. He watches as many of Kurt’s favourites as he can find, and a few of Kurt’s most hated so he can understand what he shouldn’t do.

In essence, he needs to dress well, be polite to Kurt’s parents, dance at least three dances and drive Kurt home before curfew. None of it seems difficult and there’s no need for Blaine to be nervous about this. No need for Blaine to wipe sweaty palms on the thighs of his tuxedo pants before he rings the doorbell.

It’s a rite of passage, a symbolic celebration of growing up. He’s accompanying Kurt out of gratitude and to ensure Kurt has a good time. He wants Kurt to hold his head high, to feel that he gets to fit in this time. Blaine only needs to show up and dance. He needs to say a few words to Kurt and his family, play the part, and then he’s done.

When Kurt opens the door with epaulettes on his shoulders and a plain black kilt skimming his bare knees, Blaine forgets everything he’s supposed to say.

“You look amazing,” he says instead, staring at the lean muscles of Kurt’s calves.

“Not so bad yourself,” Kurt says, closing the door behind him and herding Blaine to the car.

***

The school gymnasium is badly disguised as a 1970s disco but Blaine rather likes it. Kurt pulls a face and refuses to dance to anything his dad probably danced to as a teenager and they hover near the punch until a slow song comes on.

“Dance with me?” Kurt asks, holding out a hand.

“I’m really not a good dancer,” Blaine says, grimacing.

“I bet you can waltz.” Kurt reaches out for Blaine’s hand and tugs him towards the dance floor. “You seem like the type.”

“I can,” Blaine says. He learned to waltz in Vienna, back when it was a new dance sweeping through fashionable parties. It’s not quite the same without large, hooped skirts and dazzling chandeliers, but Kurt leads with grace and charm. He rests one hand low on Blaine’s back, subtle pressure directing the steps.

The next song is faster but Kurt holds him there. He brushes his cheek against Blaine’s and whispers, “We’re going to dance to our own beat.” They spend the next three dances waltzing, out of time to the thrashing bodies around them, and only stop for a drink.

The air is overheated and the music’s too loud to hold a conversation. They stand together, sipping overly sweet punch until the music slows down again.

Kurt takes his hand, long fingers warm around Blaine’s palm. “Come on. This time, I’ll let you lead.”

***

Blaine spends most of the drive back to Kurt’s place with his head bowed. His hands are folded in his lap, fingers crisscrossed like threads on a loom. Blaine tries to watch his hands. He want to ignore Kurt’s legs moving as he eases the gas and shifts gears, but Blaine’s attention gets caught by the smooth kneecaps revealed by the hem of the kilt.

“You’re very quiet,” Kurt says, and Blaine shrugs.

If Kurt had taken someone else to prom, Blaine’s sure this night would end differently. If Blaine had the freedom of a mortal, he’d reach over and touch the muscles of Kurt’s legs. If he had the freedom to fall in love, he would have kissed Kurt on that dance floor, tasted Kurt’s sweet smile and sharp words.

“I keep trying to figure you out but I can’t, so I have to ask.” Kurt gives a small huff, but he keeps his eyes on the road. “You came to prom with me, and you read Teen Vogue, and you certainly don’t dress like a straight boy, but I’ve been wrong about this stuff before.”

“I don’t know what the question was.”

Kurt drags in a slow breath. His fingers tighten around the steering wheel. The streetlamps overhead illuminate his hands in streaks of yellow light. “Are you gay or straight?”

“I don’t like labels,” Blaine says, because he can’t be more honest. He can’t explain to Kurt that when he grew up, marriage was about family, about connections and politics and financial security. The idea of marrying for love was idealistic but not expected. Only a lucky man would find love within his wife’s arms rather than his lovers, but no-one would think badly of him for taking lovers. No-one would care if it was a mistress or a youth in his bed, as long as the girl was pretty or the boy was handsome.

“That’s a line queer kids use to pretend they’re not gay,” Kurt bites back. “You have to be something. You have to like boys or girls. You can’t just sit on the fence and ignore it.”

“I don’t believe in labels. I don’t believe someone’s love life can be summed up in one word. Love is important,” Blaine says, staring into Kurt’s eyes and willing him to believe it. “Love is as necessary as the sunshine on your skin or the earth beneath your feet. Love is about two souls connecting, not about body parts.”

Kurt gives a small shake of his head. “But who you fall in love with is important. It changes everything that people think about you.”

“It shouldn’t,” Blaine says. He honestly believes that, but he doesn’t know how to explain it to Kurt. “The Ancient Greeks used to believe that we were all born with four arms, four legs and two heads. And one soul. They thought we were all split at birth, destined to spend our lives searching for our other half. No-one said the two halves had to be male and female, or that they shouldn’t be.”

Kurt parks the car, then swivels on his seat to face Blaine. “You’re saying we all started as monster things and sexual orientation doesn’t matter?”

“I’m saying life is too short to allow your own definitions to blind you to love. There’s so much in this world, Kurt,” he says, reaching out to hold Kurt’s hand in his. “So much to be discovered or created. It’s too wide and too varied to let anything limit you.”

Kurt breathes out a small sigh, squeezing Blaine’s fingers. “You—” Kurt stops himself when the porch light suddenly comes on, casting long shadows across the lawn.

The front door opens behind the screen. Blaine can see the silhouette of a man standing in the doorway, but the screen door stays closed.

Kurt rolls his eyes in the most eloquent way. “That’s my dad. It’s nearly curfew,” Kurt says, “but thank you for tonight. I had fun.”

“Even though I couldn’t dance anything other than the waltz?”

“Even though I couldn’t figure out the thing that’s been driving me crazy for weeks.”

“What?” Blaine asks, intrigued.

“If you like me,” Kurt says, simple and brave. He watches Blaine and Blaine can see it all: the worry that he’s wrong, the excitement that he’s right, the fear and elation all swirling around a heady affection for Blaine. “Because I really like you and I can’t stop thinking about you, and I keep thinking maybe but it never quite happens.”

“Kurt,” Blaine says, but he doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t know why he hesitates. He should tell Kurt that he doesn’t feel the same way, but the lie won’t form on his lips. “I can’t.”

“You can’t?”

“I’m only here for this year. We’re moving as soon as school’s over. I can’t.”

Kurt ignores the impatient flashing of the porch light, and leans closer. “But if it wasn’t for that…?”

“If it wasn’t for that,” Blaine agrees, “but…”

“You can’t,” Kurt says softly. Blaine can hear the pain of heartbreak in his tone.

***

That night, his phone chirps as it receives a message. Blaine ignores it.

He doesn’t want to think about delivering love to others when he can’t have it himself. He doesn’t want to second-guess himself or question the wisdom of choosing duty over his own desires. Choosing the temple, all its honours and demands, over the possibility of Kurt.

He doesn’t look at the message until he can bear it stoically. It’s not until dawn’s creeping around the edges of his curtains that he feels strong enough to open the message and read the attached pages.

When he reads the first one, his heart beats hard in his chest. He stares at the name Kurt Hummel in disbelief, but the picture is definitely Kurt’s blue-grey eyes and smooth cheeks. Blaine covers his eyes with a hand, blinking furiously against the unexpected hurt of it. He doesn’t want to imagine the kind of life Kurt might have: happy and fulfilled, mundane and mortal. Blaine knows it will happen, he knows it should but the idea of Kurt finding love in someone else’s arms feels like his insides are being ripped out of him.

Knowing he’ll be the instrument of that love makes it worse.

Steeling himself, Blaine opens the second attachment. The last thing he expects to see are his own brown eyes staring back at him.

***

There’s a moment, when Blaine opens Kurt’s screen door, that he doubts. He’s seen the attachment. He knows what it means, even if part of him can’t quite believe it. He’s checked with the temple elders and made sure he has their blessings, but for a moment he stands on Kurt’s porch with his fist in the air and his heart in his throat.

He gives three sharp raps and stands, waiting for the sound of footsteps coming down the stairs.

The door opens and Kurt has a cloth headband holding his hair up and off his face. His skin is gleaming with moisturisers as he pulls the door open with a glare. Then he blinks. “Blaine?”

“About last night,” Blaine starts, words tumbling out of his mouth, “I couldn’t stop thinking about what you said. I can’t stop thinking about you. When I wake up and whenever I’m at that school, you’re… the best thing in this entire state.”

Kurt’s face softens into a shy smile, and then he looks confused. “But I thought…”

“My parents said I could stay. That I can finish high school at McKinley.” It’s only a lie in the strictest sense. The temple has suggested that he graduate from this school and go on to do what mortals have always done: fall in love, find a home, start a family. The absentee parents will remain unseen, and false death certificates will be provided when necessary. “So I can. Do. I mean, what I couldn’t do before, I can. Now.”

Clearly, the English language isn’t helping him right now. Blaine leans in, giving a nervous lick of his lips as Kurt’s eyes go wide. But Kurt doesn’t lean away. Kurt stays still, waiting until their lips press together.

Blaine feels it like an electric shock from his fingertips down to the arches of his feet. It’s connection and recognition so powerful he gasps and Kurt’s mouth follows his to close the miniscule gap. Kurt’s fingers are cool and soothing on his cheek; his lips are soft and warm. Blaine reaches out, needing to anchor himself, and finds the thin cotton of Kurt’s t-shirt fisted in his hands. He doesn’t know if it’s the strength of love he’s waited lifetimes to find making his knees weak. He doesn’t know if it’s his immortality dissolving and Aphrodite’s blessings withdrawn that makes his head spin and his pulse rush through his veins. It could just be Kurt and his bright eyes, and sharp tongue, and brave, generous heart.

Whatever it is, Blaine’s dazed and breathless when Kurt pulls back.

“I’d pictured a much better outfit for my first kiss,” Kurt says regretfully, “but I think the romance of the setting and the early morning light compensates for my less than stellar attire.”

Blaine laughs, glancing away. When he looks back, Kurt’s staring at him, eyes greyer than Blaine’s ever seen them. Blaine’s mesmerised, caught like an asp by a snake-charmer, and they stand there frozen. The air is thick with possibility.

Until there’s a shout from inside the house. “Kurt! Who’s at the door?”

“Oh my god, Dad,” Kurt hisses, turning to yell back through the doorway, “Don’t ruin this for me.”

“Kurt?”

“I’ll tell you later,” Kurt calls back and then steps outside, pulling the front door closed behind him. The moment’s ruined, but somehow they’re both smiling. “Sorry about that.”

“I couldn’t wait.” Blaine shrugs, noticing for the first time how pale the morning sky is. It’s a time for emergencies, not a time for visitors. “But it probably wasn’t the best time to come over.”

“I’m glad you did. How about you give me ten minutes to get changed and we’ll go out for breakfast?” Kurt reaches up to flick his hair back, and his fingers brush the headband. Grimacing, he adds, “Make that twenty minutes. And if you wait on the porch swing, I’ll make sure Dad doesn’t try to interrogate you.”

Blaine’s waited so long for love that he’d given up on the prospect. He waited long enough to find it; he can be patient now that it’s his. “Take as long as you need.”

Kurt leans in to kiss him, but at the last minute veers left, kissing Blaine’s cheek instead. “Thanks. I swear, twenty minutes,” he says, and ducks back inside.

There’s the sound of a hissed conversation, the kind of conversation Kurt doesn’t want him to hear, as Blaine settles on the rusty old swing. He closes his eyes, listening to the birdsong and waiting for the sunlight on his face. It occurs to him that in his entire life, in over two millennia of encouraging love and observing lovers, he’s never seen this. He’s never seen what happens after that first true kiss, after love is recognised and known.

For the first time in a long, long time, Blaine’s looking forward to whatever happens next.

***

They’ve been talking about this trip since Blaine declared his major in Ancient Greek. By the time they get around to taking it, Blaine’s graduated with near perfect marks. Kurt says it’s better this way. Now it’s a celebration of their achievements.

They start in Paris for Kurt and travel through Italy, admiring fashions in Rome and Milan and the rolling countryside between villages. If Blaine doesn’t look too closely, if he ignores the modern technology and better roads, it’s barely changed from the first time he walked across these lands.

When they get to Greece, it’s a little overwhelming. Where Blaine remembers small villages and towns, there are now busy city streets and luxurious seaside resorts. There are tourists soaking in sunshine and liquor in equal measure and partying late into the night. He’d thought it would feel like coming home, but he’s never felt so far from his childhood.

Blaine’s tried to make the best of it, but there’s a lingering melancholy that he’s trying his best to hide. Of course, Kurt notices. Kurt always sees more than Blaine expects.

They get away from the tourist spots the next day and Blaine drives along the seaside the way they’d drive in Ohio, driving for hours simply for the sake of being together. Most of their important conversations have happened in a car: Kurt leaving for college and Blaine agreeing to talk his fictional parents into letting him transfer to a high school in New York; the necessary lie of said parents passing away once Blaine’s faked birth certificate marked him a legal adult; the first time Kurt asked him about his opinions on marriage.

Sometimes, they talk about nothing more important than whether their coffee table needs new legs or an entire overhaul, if the latest contestants in Top Model have what it takes to be supermodels or only reality television stars. If it will be cheaper to ship back Kurt’s additional clothing purchases from this trip or pay the additional baggage charges. Kurt’s reading out the airline charges from his phone when Blaine realises he knows the hills around him.

The road curves, and Blaine can see the land curving from the coast. The twisted olive tree is gone, but Blaine remembers clearly where it used to be. In summer, when the fishermen would come back laughing and red-faced from the wind, Blaine would run that path down to the beach to watch the boats come in. He’d help carry the fish back to the village, stopping in the shade of the olive tree when the day was hot.

The village itself has been gone for centuries, eroded by time and change. Now there are garishly large villas along the coast but as Blaine leads Kurt down onto the sand, he sees that the beach itself hasn’t changed at all. The sea is still an impossible mix of grey, green and blue but it matches Kurt’s eyes perfectly.

“You’re ridiculous,” Kurt says when Blaine tells him, “and too charming for your own good.”

Blaine’s lived with Kurt long enough to know that these knee-length linen shorts might be travelling clothes, but that doesn’t mean Kurt will be pleased about getting sand all over them. Blaine shrugs off his cotton-blend sweater and lays it over the sand beside him, patting it until Kurt sits down.

“Go ahead,” Kurt says softly, resting his head on Blaine’s shoulder. “I know you’re dying to tell me every geeky detail of people who died centuries ago.”

So Blaine does. Blaine tells him about the tiny village that used to be a short walk away from here. He tells Kurt about the summer and mid-winter festivals, the home shrines to gods and the larger temples. He talks about learning from travelling philosophers, sitting in the clear air of a warm day and discussing love and truth as mundanely as learning to write or count. He tells Kurt things he’s never tried to explain to anyone else like the early nights of winter, when candles were preciously hoarded so sunset meant going to bed. Growing up with stories of gods and knowing Poseidon ruled the waters as surely as Apollo drove the sun across the sky. He tells Kurt everything he can think of, from the stiff leather of new sandals to the smell of fresh white-washed walls.

It doesn’t matter that Kurt thinks Blaine’s discussing what he’s studied and not what he’s lived. It matters that he listens.

When Blaine can’t think of anything more to say, Kurt reaches over and takes his hand. “As lovely as you make it sound, I couldn’t imagine living in a time without Tyra Banks and the internet on my phone.”

“Clearly, you belong in your time,” Blaine replies and Kurt gives him a look. It’s fond and searching, the expression Kurt always gives him when Blaine says something unexpected. In general, Blaine receives that look less often these days. It might be the result of living his years in one place and one time, learning this time through the people born into it. Or it might simply be that Kurt knows him better now. “I mean, clearly we both do,” he tries to correct.

“I don’t know. You spend so much time reading musty old books and imagining life without electricity, I don’t think you belong to any particular time.”

“So where do I belong?” Blaine asks, teasing.

“That’s easy.” Kurt drops a kiss to Blaine’s hand, right across the plain gold band on his third finger. “You belong with me, Mr Anderson-Hummel.”

Blaine smiles, because it’s still so new it makes him giddy to think about it. “I thought you wanted the Hummel to come first?”

Rolling his eyes, Kurt says, “I haven’t made up my mind yet. We have plenty of time to figure it out.”

Blaine agrees completely.


End file.
